


Pictures Of You

by katertots



Series: Pictures Verse [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Best Friends, Developing Relationship, F/M, Flirting, Sexting, Sexual Tension, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:53:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katertots/pseuds/katertots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're best friends, nothing more.  So why are they doing this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pictures Of You

**Author's Note:**

> I've been looking so long at these pictures of you  
> That I almost believe that they're real
> 
> \- The Cure, Pictures Of You

It starts with a kiss.  Sort of.

 

Steve’s reviewing intel for the mission from his seat on the Quinjet and trying not to feel disappointed that he didn’t see Darcy before he left.  She always—well, for the last year anyway—gives him a hug and a kiss on the cheek before he leaves on a mission and wishes him luck.  It’s a simple gesture between friends, but he’s grown so used to it that it’s practically a ritual.  Coulson’s packed schedule meant she was tied up with work and couldn’t get away to see him off.  He completely understands.  Besides, it’s not that he  _needs_ that gesture from her; he just really likes it is all. 

 

“What’s eatin’ you?” Bucky asks, kicking the toe of Steve’s boot and dropping down into the seat beside him. 

 

“Nothin’,” he replies, looking up from his tablet and slanting him a questioning look.  “Why?” 

 

Bucky gestures to the space between his eyebrows.  “You’ve got the line.  S’so tight you could probably snap a twig with it.”

 

“Rogers is pouting because he didn’t get to see the work wife before we left,” Tony supplies and pops a handful of trail mix into mouth.  He smirks and holds out the bag.  “You guys want some?”

 

“Fuck off, Stark,” Steve grouses and goes back to reading. 

 

“See?” Tony sneers.

 

“Go bug Banner,” Bucky suggests, waving him off. 

 

Tony scoffs, “Rude,” before walking away. 

 

Steve purposely ignores Bucky staring a hole into the side of his head and focuses on the job.  He’s not in the mood to hear Bucky razz him about Darcy for the thousandth time.  His phone chirps with a new text message, he reaches to pick it up, but Bucky beats him to it.  “Give it back, jerk,” Steve snaps and holds out his hand. 

 

Bucky reads the display and a grin flashes across his face.  “You can breathe easier, punk.  It’s your work wife.”  He waves the phone back and forth in front of Steve’s face. 

 

Steve rolls his eyes.  “Don’t start,” he warns and snatches the phone from Bucky’s grasp.  He taps his pass code on the screen and opens the text from Darcy.  There’s a close-up picture of her face, eyes closed, dark lashes dusting the tops of her cheekbones, bright red lips pursed in a kiss, and everything in the picture is cast in a soft, dreamy blur except for her lips.  

 

 **Darcy:** _Didn’t get a chance to give you this before you left.  Good luck, Commander!_        

 

Bucky snorts over his shoulder and stands.  “Nice picture.  Just friends, my ass, Rogers.”

 

Steve feels the tension he’d been trying to ignore evaporate from his body and a smile tugs at his lips.  He looks at the picture for a long moment and types out his reply.  

 

**Steve:** _Gorgeous, doll. Thanks.  Sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye.  Talk when I can._

After pressing the send button, he settles back into the seat to rest up for the mission.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Darcy’s happily enjoying her extended lunch—courtesy of Coulson, thank you very much—in the shoe department of Barneys.  There’s no way in hell she can afford any of the shoes she’s trying on—not on her meager salary—but that doesn’t take away the fun of taking a few pairs for a spin. 

 

She’s just slipped on a gorgeous pair of red peep-toe Louboutins and fastened the thin ankle strap when the text message alert chimes on her phone.  Darcy fishes it out of her purse and stands, turning to admire the bow on the back of the heels in the mirror.  Her mood brightens further seeing Steve’s name on the screen.  

 

**Steve:** _Hi, Darce.  What’re you up to?_

This is the first she’s heard from him in two days, and she’s glad to know he’s well enough to text and make small talk.  Coulson is tight-lipped on his best day and the only information he gave her was that all members of the team were alive.  Sitting back down on a plush round ottoman, she crosses her legs and, for one glorious moment, pretends that she’s got the cash to afford these beauties before she replies to his message.  

 

**Darcy:** _Trying on shoes that cost more than my monthly rent.  How’re you?_

**Steve:** _Ok.  Tired.  Miami situation resolved quickly; now headed to Switzerland._

**Steve:** _Shit.  Don’t tell Coulson I told you that._

Darcy laughs.  As if Coulson would ever get mad at Steve Rogers.  Please.  Not in ten zillion years.  

 

**Darcy:** _Secret’s safe with me._

**Steve:** _Shoes huh?  Sounds…fun? :)_   

 

 **Darcy:** _Just like a man.  It is fun, Steve Rogers & if I didn’t love Son of Coul so much, I’d steal his Cap trading cards & sell them to afford these shoes.  _   

 

**Steve:** _Let me see ‘em, then._

A smile sneaks across her face and she asks the salesgirl to take a picture for her.  This way she’ll have a photo of her in the shoes, too.  Darcy angles her body and poses with one leg half stretched out, hands resting demurely on her knee and she looks over her shoulder at the camera with a coy smile playing on her lips.  “Thank you,” she says laughingly when the girl hands the phone back.  Looking down at the picture, she smirks at the pin-up style pose.  Her skirt rode up a bit too high, though, and the lace at the top of her thigh high stockings as well as a bit of skin is visible.  Oops.  It’s a great picture and the shoes are perfect.  With a shrug, she decides to send it to Steve, visible stockings and all.  Whatever.  He’s seen her in a swimsuit before and she’s not very well going to ask the salesgirl to take another picture.   

 

She glances at the time and pouts that it’s time to give the pretty shoes back and return to the office.  Unfastening the strap, she eases off the heels and places them neatly back into their box.  Slipping into her work pumps, she grabs her purse and heads for the exit.  Her stomach does a flip when she gets Steve’s reply.  

 

**Steve:** _Beautiful gams, doll face._

**Steve:** _The shoes and stockings are smokin’, too._

**Steve:** _Gotta go.  Talk soon._

Darcy smiles all the way back to the office.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Steve’s in a lousy mood; he’s exhausted, filthy, starving, and his ribs also hurt like a goddamn sonofabitch from getting blindsided and thrown against a brick wall while he and the rest of the team fought off Doombots.  He’ll be fine in a few hours, but first he wants a shower and as much food as he can find on the helicarrier. 

 

After he eats and gets cleaned up, he settles down into his bunk and reaches for his phone to text Darcy.  He needs something to take his mind off the pain radiating through his side while his ribs heal.  There’s already a text waiting for him and he bites the inside of his cheek in anticipation.  No picture this time, just a story about her hacking the computer stations of a few of the baby agents ‘for funsies’ to see them freak out that makes him laugh for the first time in days.  His ribs protest against the laughter and he grits his teeth, waiting for the throbbing to subside. 

 

It’s not that he’s disappointed to not find a picture in the message, but—okay, fine, yes—he is.  A little.  He and Darcy have had a flirty friendship almost from the moment they met, but this is different. 

 

Their flirting is somehow made simultaneously more and less dangerous because he’s halfway around the world and they can hide behind the safety of typed words and shared pictures.  Truth be told, it’s exhilarating and he doesn’t want to stop.

 

 **Steve:** _You got time to talk or are you still terrorizing the agents?_  

 

While he waits for a response he scrolls through their previous messages to look at the pictures she sent.  Darcy looks like she jumped out of the pages of a 40’s magazine and he can’t stop staring at that expanse of pale skin between the lace of her stockings and the black skirt she’s wearing.  The shoes on her feet are sexy as hell and he’s never been one to care about shoes other than what kind of function they serve.  And her lips in the other picture.  Jesus, her full, red-painted lips pursed in a kiss make warmth swirl low in his gut.  He’s saved from thoughts he really shouldn’t have when a new message from Darcy pops up.    

 

**Darcy:** _I always have time for you._

 

Steve smiles and taps the keys.  

 

 **Steve:** _Do you have a picture for me today?_                            

 

**Darcy:** _I might_

**Darcy:** _Tell me how you’re doing first & I’ll send it.  No bullshit either._

He chuckles, then.  She knows him so well and that’s a comforting thing; especially this far from home, doing the work that he does.  

 

**Steve:** _A few cuts that have already healed, sore ribs that’ll be fine in the morning._

**Steve:** _You worried about me?_

Darcy sends back an irritated smiley face and he grins.  

 

**Darcy:** _Don’t be stupid, Rogers, it doesn’t suit you._

**Darcy:** _Here’s your picture o’ the day._

Steve waits impatiently for the picture to come through and when it finally does, he makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat.  The picture is in black and white this time and Darcy’s in his office with her back to the camera, hands planted on his desk and one heel kicked up playfully behind her.  She’s wearing the leopard print pencil skirt that hugs her exquisite curves and turns every head in the office, including his, a short sleeved black sweater, and seamed stockings.  Her head is turned slightly to the side, just enough to make out the shadowy silhouette of her face.  Her figure is the very definition of hourglass and it’s goddamn sexy, is what it is.  He tells her as much.  

 

**Steve:** _Jesus, Darce.  That’s sexy as hell._

**Darcy:** _Thank you, Commander Rogers._

**Steve:** _Did you pick the lock or swipe Coulson’s keys?_

He thinks about it for a moment and quickly types out another text.

 

 **Steve:** _Who took that picture?_  

 

**Darcy:** _A lady never reveals her secrets, Steve.  Get some rest._

He would, except now he’s fully hard in his sweats and his head is full of thoughts of bending her over his desk.   _Fuck._ His hand is low on his stomach as he looks at the picture again.   _You’re such an asshole, Rogers,_ he mentally scolds himself.  That doesn’t stop him from tugging his sweats down and wrapping a hand around his cock, thoughts of Darcy front and center in his mind while he jerks himself off.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Her aching muscles rejoice as Darcy lowers herself into the steaming hot bath and relaxes her body against the back of the tub.  The work week had been grueling, and today’s session at the gym was so brutal she wanted to openly weep and admit defeat.  But now it’s the weekend and she has two whole days to do absolutely nothing if she wants.  She closes her eyes and takes a sip of the red wine she poured generously.  Robin Thicke’s voice filters softly through the speakers on her iPod dock and she sighs contentedly, letting the hot water envelop and soothe her. 

 

The telltale chirp of a text message sounds on her phone and without even looking she knows it’s from Steve.  She fumbles her hand over the side of the tub and dries it on a towel before reaching for her phone to open his message.  

 

 **Steve:** _Hi, doll_. 

 

Darcy grins at his use of vintage slang.  He does it all the time and she likes to tease him about his “old-timey sayings,” but, truth be told, she’d miss them like crazy if he ever stopped.  

 

**Steve:** _Nice angry face gym picture earlier._

She huffs out a laugh.  That picture was absolutely terrible, but it adequately captured her feelings on burpees and she thought he’d get a kick out of it.  

 

**Darcy:** _Hi!  Thanks.  I wanted to beat the trainer with your shield today._

**Steve:** _:) I’ll loan it to you next time.  What are you doing now?_

Darcy bites her lip and considers snapping a picture of what it is she’s doing now.  She knows that will launch her over a line that, so far, they’ve just been toeing the edge of; she doesn’t know yet if that’s a good idea.  Well, it’s definitely not a good idea, but she wants to do it anyway.  She wants his reaction, wants to feel that excitement prickle up her spine reading his words.  She wants—a lot of things that are best left for a conversation down the road.  Or maybe never.  For now, though, she’s in control and she positions herself in the tub to take a picture for him.  She rests her feet on the edge of the tub, knees slightly bent, blood red polish visible on her toes, her skin pink from the water.  Holding out her wineglass to get it in the shot, she snaps a picture of her bare, wet legs, bath bubbles covering spots of her skin. 

 

She gulps down another drink of wine while she plays with the photo, adding a soft filter to it and giving it a hazy, dreamy sort of feel.  There’s nothing bad about the picture and all of her naughty bits are firmly out of the shot.  Still, it’s abundantly clear what she’s doing and the fact that she’s naked.  After swallowing the rest of her wine, she attaches the picture and clicks send before she loses her nerve. 

 

**Darcy:** _Relaxing._

“God, what are you doing, Darcy?” she mutters. 

 

Yes, she and Steve are incorrigible flirts with each other, and this new level of flirting is definitely fun and exciting.  But, he’s her best friend, and it’s the best friend part she doesn’t want to fuck up.  Her phone chirps again and she hesitates reading the message. 

 

**Steve:** _All wet for me, I see._

“Jesus,” she breathes out and presses her thighs together.  At least he’s keeping her company on the other side of that line. 

 

**Steve:** _Fuck, Darce, that ain’t fair._

Darcy smirks victoriously and taps out another message. 

 

**Darcy:** _How long have you known me, Rogers?_

**Darcy:** _I don’t play fair.  I play to win._

**Steve:** _Same goes, sweetheart._

**Steve:** _Great, I have to suit up in ten.  Thanks a lot._

**Darcy:** _Jesus, Steve._

**Darcy:** _I’d say sorry, but you know I’m not._

**Steve:** _I know.  Wouldn’t expect you to._

**Darcy:** _Good thing I don’t have to worry about suiting up. ;)_

She worries she’s pushed it too far.  She may as well have just typed  _I’m going to remain naked in this tub and touch myself while replaying this conversation in my head_ , because really, that’s exactly what’s about to happen. 

**Steve:** _Christ, Darcy.  You win._

**Steve:** _Again._

Darcy groans and sinks down further into the hot water, the ache between her legs growing stronger. 

 

**Darcy:** _Be safe, Steve._

**Steve:** _Yes, ma’am._

Darcy exhales slowly.  Did that really just happen?  She scrolls through her other texts and opens the one Bucky sent her earlier.

 

**Bucky:** _Here’s a picture of your boy._

**Bucky:** _Don’t know why you like this ugly bastard so much._

**Darcy:** _He can reach the high shelves._

**Darcy:** _And he has a better uniform than you._

Steve’s got his intensely serious Commander Rogers face on in the picture, scruff growing over his jaw, a streak of dirt on his brow beneath his sweat-soaked hair.  That look does things to her, always has.  He looks so sexy, so in charge, and, not for the first time, she slides her hand slowly down between her legs and imagines that it’s Steve bringing her off.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He’s eating dinner with the team and everyone is in a good mood for a change; they were able to shut down the latest threat much more easily than anticipated and no one got hurt.  There’s joking and laughter and a bit of celebration, all extremely rare things after a mission.  Steve’s reaching for a second piece of cake when his phone vibrates on the table.  It’s from Darcy and his stomach does an excited flip—kinda like the one he got at Coney Island last year when Darcy dragged him on a rollercoaster and he wasn’t sure whether or not he’d throw up like he had when he was a kid riding next to Bucky.  But Darcy’d just grabbed his hand and flashed that dazzling smile that always wrapped people around her little finger, and he followed her through the line and into an empty car without a second thought.  She held his hand the whole time and when they reached the crest of a rollercoaster before it slowly teetered over the edge and rushed down the other side, his stomach flipped and he wasn’t sure whether to laugh hysterically or scream.  As soon as the ride was over, he was ready to go again and he’d grabbed her hand to pull her back in line. 

 

His curiosity over what’s in the message is eating away at him, but he’s not stupid enough to open it up and read it at the table.  Especially since the last two times she’s sent him pictures he’d been hard instantly and had to jerk off to relieve the tension.  Tony and Bucky also tease him mercilessly about Darcy and the last thing he needs is either of them seeing the pictures she’s sent and the texts they’ve traded back and forth.  He’d never hear the end of it, for one, and more importantly, he doesn’t want to embarrass Darcy.  This is between the two of them and no one else. 

 

As soon as Bucky’s distracted by Natasha, and Tony and Bruce start talking about science, Steve says goodnight and quickly heads for his quarters.  He locks the door and changes into his sweatpants before climbing into bed with his phone.  His heart is already beating a little faster in anticipation and it takes him three tries to unlock his phone to read the new messages. 

 

“Oh, fuck me,” he mutters, devouring the close-up image of Darcy in bed—the curve of her hip, the smooth, trim line of her abdomen, the goose bumps prickling her milky skin, the little constellation of freckles on the top of her thigh.  One thing he really appreciates in this modern era is how skimpy women’s underwear has become.  His mouth waters over the scrap of black cotton edged in lace that barely covers her hips, leaving just enough to the imagination to let it run wild.  Thoughts flood his mind of gliding his hands up her thighs, fingertips ghosting over the edge of her panties while he mouths her through the thin cotton, teasing her until she’s begging him to slide them off her body.  He wants to smell her, taste her, touch her, hear her cry out his name.  “Fuck,” he grinds out and presses the heel of his hands against the erection tenting his sweats.         

 

**Steve:** _Jesus, doll.  You tryin to kill me?_

He strokes his fingers lazily on the outside of his pants while he waits for her to respond, hoping like hell she’s going to.  Thankfully he doesn’t have to wait long.

 

**Darcy:** _Kill you?  Never._

**Darcy:** _Torture, maybe. :)_

**Darcy:** _Why, Commander?  Too much for you?_

“Goddamn,” he huffs out, palming his dick through his sweats again. 

 

**Steve:** _Nope.  Just right._

**Steve:** _So damn gorgeous._

Steve’s fingers hesitate over the keys a moment before typing out another message. 

 

**Steve:** _Are you in bed?_

**Darcy:** _Yes.  It’s storming like crazy outside._

**Darcy:** _I don’t plan on getting dressed today._

A groan tears out of his mouth.  She’s definitely torturing him.  He’s also curious about what else she’s wearing, or maybe not wearing. 

 

**Steve:** _Are you wearing anything besides those panties?_

“This is insane,” he mutters, anxiously waiting for her to answer.  His stomach flips again and he’s achingly hard in his sweats now. 

 

**Darcy:** _A tank top._

**Steve:** _Show me._

**Darcy:** _You show me something first, Rogers, and I will._

Steve removes his hand from his dick and turns on the camera on his phone, holding it up in the air.  He snaps a picture, looks at it, and immediately presses delete.  Too blurry.  He tries three more times before he finally gets one that shows just his jaw, neck, and chest, sets it to black and white, and sends it to Darcy.  She replies almost immediately.

 

**Darcy:** _Abs, too, Steve. ;)_

He chuckles and pushes his sweats down low on his hips.  This time he gets it right on the first try.

 

**Steve:** _Happy now?_

**Darcy:** _Mmm…very._

**Darcy:** _Fuck, you’re hot, Commander._

**Darcy:** _The scruff is super sexy._

“Fuck,” he hisses, and pushes his sweatpants down lower to grip his cock; desperately wishing he could hear her call him that.  They’re both so far past the line now he doesn’t even remember what the line looks like.  Frankly, he doesn’t give a good damn anymore.  He wants her so badly he can practically taste it.  He taps out another message with the thumb not currently rubbing circles around the head of his dick and bites his top lip to keep the groan inside in case anyone from the team happens by his bunk. 

 

**Steve:** _We’re gonna have to talk about this._

**Steve:** _Later._

His phone vibrates a moment later and he reads her reply. 

 

**Darcy:** _Yes.  Later._

**Darcy:** _Here’s your picture._

Steve doesn’t know what his expectations were, exactly, but this picture has blown every last one of them out of the water.  Fuck.  The picture is black and white again, artfully blurred around the edges from whatever app she uses on her phone.  Her hair falls in a tumble of wild, dark curls carelessly around her shoulder.  Skin.  So much pale and flawless skin on display from her neck to her belly button, one arm draped strategically across her breasts to conceal her nipples, but still show off the generous curves.  Everything about her is soft and sexy and— _fuck_.  He’s in so much trouble.   

 

**Steve:** _Fuck, Darcy._

**Steve:** _You’re killing me._

He can’t take it anymore and drops his phone on his chest so he can thrust up into his fist.  His eyes fall closed and his mind rolls over an image of her writhing on top of him, hands in her hair, tits bouncing.  “Jesus Christ,” he pants.  He’s going right to hell.  His phone beeps again and he picks it up to read her message. 

 

**Darcy:** _Have fun touching yourself, Rogers._

“Dammit, woman,” he grunts, and strokes himself harder. 

 

 **Steve:** _I am._   

 

**Darcy:** _Good._

**Darcy:** _So am I._

Steve tosses his phone and swears sharply again, the image of Darcy sliding her hand into those tiny panties and burying her fingers into her heat enough to knock him right over the edge.  He grunts and comes in his hand. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s Sunday afternoon and for Darcy and Steve that usually means watching Giants football at her place and stuffing their faces with pizza or hot wings—usually both with Steve’s appetite.  Steve’s still away on a mission and after the texts and pictures they traded yesterday, Darcy isn’t sure whether that’s the best or worst thing.  She has absolutely no idea what’s going to happen when he gets home and that scares her.  Does she want to be more than friends?  Duh.  But she’s worried that this was the wrong way to go about it and once Steve is back home and not lonely on a mission he’ll realize this was all a mistake.  Then, she’ll have fucked up her relationship with her best friend. 

 

Darcy pulls on her blue Manning jersey, little white shorts with the Giants logo on the ass, and the red, white, and blue tube socks she wears every Sunday for luck while cheering for their team.  Her hair’s a wild mess, so she tames that back into a messy ponytail.  She eyes her phone on the dresser warily before picking it up.  “Don’t be so ridiculous,” she mutters and pastes a ridiculous expression on her face before taking a picture for Steve. 

 

**Darcy:** _Game day face._

**Darcy:** _Go Giants!_

She heads out to the living room and settles down on the couch to watch the game.  Her phone chirps a minute later and there are butterflies in stomach when she sees Steve’s name; she has no idea what to expect.  There isn’t a handbook for how to navigate the waters with your best friend after trading semi-dirty pictures and texts, and admitting to that person that you’re getting off to the aforementioned pictures and texts and—her phone beeps again. 

 

 

**Steve:** _You’re cute._

**Steve:** _Let me see the socks._

Darcy grins and blows out a relieved breath, so glad things aren’t awkward between them today.

   

**Darcy:** _What makes you think I’m wearing the socks?_

**Steve:** _Because I know you and you wear ‘em every Sunday._

**Steve:** _You think it’s bad luck if you don’t._

She smiles and holds up her legs to take a picture from the knee down of her lucky socks. 

 

**Darcy:** _It is bad luck._

**Darcy:** _Wish you were here to watch the game._

**Darcy:** _Guess that means more pizza for me. :)_

There’s a knock on the door and Darcy hurries to answer it, stumbling over the rain boots she kicked off haphazardly the day before and stubbing her toe.  “Shit!” she hisses, limping the rest of the way and fumbling through her purse for a tip for the delivery person.  She pulls open the door and her jaw falls slack.  Steve’s standing there, his stupidly handsome face still scruffy from the mission, faded Giants t-shirt visible beneath his leather jacket, one hand tucked in the pocket of his jeans, the other holding a six pack of her favorite beer.  “You’re not the pizza guy,” she says, a grin stretching slowly across her face.  Butterflies wage a full-scale assault in her belly and a little part of her wishes she’d done her hair and makeup today. 

 

“Nope,” Steve chuckles.  “You okay?” 

 

“Huh?” she asks dumbly, wincing inwardly at her inelegance when he gestures to her foot.  “Oh.  Yeah, just tripped over my boots like a dumbass.  Let’s start over.  Hey, Steve.” 

 

Steve’s smirk turns up to a full smile that does nothing to calm the butterflies in her tummy.  “Hi, Darcy.”  He opens his mouth again just as the pizza guy bounds up the stairs. 

 

“C’mon in and get the beer ready,” Darcy says.  “The game’s just about to start.”  Steve nods and walks through the door, brushing her shoulder as he passes, and her entire arm tingles from his touch.  She shoves a five dollar bill into the delivery guy’s hand for a tip, scribbles her signature on the credit card slip, and takes the pizza.  “Thanks,” she mutters absently and shuts the door in his face. 

 

She turns and watches Steve shrug out of his jacket, fold and drape it neatly over the arm of the sofa, his muscles bunching beneath the faded cotton of his t-shirt in the process.  He lifts his eyes to meet hers and another warm smile flicks easily across his face.  Darcy thinks it’d be really great if he, like, draped her over the back of the sofa and fu—

 

“Time for kickoff,” Steve says, dropping down on the sofa. 

 

“Yep,” she answers too quickly, “kickoff.”  She carries the pizza over to the coffee table and plops down beside him on the couch. 

 

They have to talk about the last two weeks.  Eventually.  But for now there’s the Sunday ritual of Giants football and pizza and beer with her best friend. 

 

It can wait.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Darcy’s killin’ him.

 

Well, she’s been killing him for the last two weeks, but it’s even worse now that he’s sitting next to her on the cozy couch in her living room with little space between them, Darcy in those criminally tiny shorts and silly socks he loves seeing every Sunday.  But now—now he knows what she looks like in her panties and with her arm wrapped temptingly around her naked tits; knows that she got herself off while they texted back and forth, and she knows he did the same.  Now they’re both just vehemently ignoring the elephant in the room. 

 

Steve may seem relaxed on the outside, casually reclined in his seat, beer bottle dangling between his fingers, but inside his guts are a nervous mess and he keeps inconspicuously wiping his damp palms on his jeans.  It’s goddamn ridiculous.  He’s an adult—they’re  _both_  adults—and they’re best friends.  They should be able to have a conversation about the things that have changed between them.  And boy, have they changed.  He sat in this same spot a mere three weeks ago and while he had definitely admired her socks and expanse of skin on her thighs, he didn’t spend the entirety of the game imagining stripping her naked and pinning her beneath him…like he currently is and has been for the last three quarters.

 

“Are you fucking kidding me?  How the hell is that not roughing the passer?” Darcy shouts indignantly at the television, slapping her palms on her thighs.  “Did you see that shit?”

 

No.  He absolutely didn’t.  He was too busy staring at her and getting lost in his head.  “Yeah.  That’s bullshit,” he grouses, figuring that’s a safe response. 

 

“It’d be nice if you scored some goddamn points, boys!  Maybe a touchdown instead of settling for another fucking field goal and going into overtime.  I hate how Eli always lets Peyton get inside his head during The Manning Bowl.  For fuck’s sake!”

 

Steve slants a look in her direction, his lips twitching into a lopsided grin.  “I ever tell you your garbage mouth is a thing of beauty?”

 

Darcy snorts and takes a drink of her beer, eyes never leaving the television.  “Thank you,” she grins over at him as the game takes a timeout.  “You’re no slouch yourself, Rogers.  Even if I don’t understand your grandpa slang sometimes.”

 

“Fuck off, Darce, quit bustin’ my balls,” Steve says with a smirk on his lips.  Darcy feigns shock, her mouth forming a perfectly round ‘O’ that makes him think too many dirty things, before laughing brightly at him and clinking her beer bottle against his.        

 

“Alright, Giants, let’s move the chains!” she crows at the screen, settling back against the squashy pillows. 

 

Steve decides to shove all other thoughts aside until the game’s over.  It’s not as though he’s going to stop wanting her in the next twenty minutes.  “Nice toss!  There we go!” he comments after the play.  “First down.” 

 

“Uh-uh,” Darcy corrects.  “It’s short.  It’ll be third and inches.”

 

Steve glances sideways at her while gesturing to the TV.  “Better get your eyes checked, ‘cause that’s a first down.”

 

“You’re wrong, Commander,” Darcy sing-songs, lips pursing smugly, and he has to bite back the groan in his throat and force himself not to lean over and kiss the smirk off her mouth.  Steve watches the officials place the ball and drag the chains out to measure the yards.  Sure enough, the ball is inches short of a first down.  “Told ya so.” 

 

He tosses a throw pillow at her, grinning when she giggles. 

 

The Giants get into formation again and Steve’s sure they’re going to run the ball.  But Manning takes the snap and looks downfield to Cruz.  “Oh, shit!  It’s a Hail Mary.”  He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.  Darcy mirrors his pose, covering her mouth with her hands.  The ball sails down the field and right into the smooth hands of Victor Cruz who effortlessly runs it in the last ten yards across the goal line.  He and Darcy both jump to their feet, clapping and hollering.

 

“Fuck yes!” Darcy shouts.  “Touchdown!  Suck it, Broncos!”

 

Darcy does a victory dance around the living room, arms waving, hips shimmying, and he cracks up at the scene.  He doesn’t understand how she manages to pull off adorable and sexy at the same time, but she does it so damn well.  She stops directly in front of him, blue eyes shining brightly as she looks up at him, random pieces of hair that escaped her messy ponytail framing her pretty face, and holds both hands up for a high five.  Maybe there was one another lifetime ago, but Steve can’t recall a time he’s wanted something more than he wants to kiss her right now.  He doesn’t slap her palms with his and she arches a questioning brow.  Instead he laces their fingers together and feels the jolt all the way to his toes at the touch.  Heart pounding in his chest, his eyes flick down to her mouth and back up to meet her eyes as he says, “M’gonna kiss you.”

 

A smile ghosts across her pink lips and color blooms high on her cheekbones.  Darcy nods her head and squeezes his hands tightly in hers. “Good,” she breathes, smiling up at him.

Still holding her hands, he smiles back and draws her in closer until her chest is pressed against his torso.  He watches Darcy tip her head back slightly, eyes falling closed, and he bows his head to press his lips fully to hers.

 

Her lips are plump, softer than he imagined they’d be, and it’s all he can do to take his time and not cart her off to bed the second she moans softly and parts her lips under his.  He’s been half hard since he walked through the door—hell, maybe even since that first text message that blurred the lines of their friendship—and the taste of her, the citrusy smell of her hair surrounding him, sends all the blood rushing straight to his cock. 

 

They still haven’t talked. 

 

They really should get around to that.

 

Later.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this forever it seems like. Many thanks to m'ladies for reading this and waving their pom-poms along the way. I'm pretty sure this started as a prompt at some point from either Nessismore or Merideath. They're responsible for such things. :)
> 
> They both helped beta this and put up with my whining, as did inkandash and Britt1975. Thank you all so much!


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